Re-Visited
by Thanwen
Summary: Some authoresses are kissed by the muse, some are bitten by a plot-bunny, others yield to their readers' demands. But the most dangerous challenge for any authoress is the clamour of some characters, who turn up at her doorstep, demanding their stories to be continued. Just some chapters of fun set in "Thanwen Universe" but otherwise strictly canon.
1. Chapter 1

It is not necessary to have read any of my stories to follow this one, but it certainly would help to get the joke.

 **Chapter I**

"Verdoori nomal!" Her face below the tattered headscarf turning red with rage, the plump, elderly farmer lifted her head with a frown. From the meadow behind the barn came the protesting screams and cackles of her hens and then she saw them running like mad for the hedges. _Those bloody mongrels again, no doubt!_

Jumping up from where she had been crouching in her vegetable beds, weeding the spinach patch lest they would have to feed on chickweed instead, she hefted her sturdy four-pronged hoe and rushed towards the gate. This time she would not accept her new neighbour's lame excuses as to why he didn't have his dogs under control! She was still fumbling with the jamming gate – _she had told that husband of hers a thousand times to repair it_ – when a new sound made her stop dead. Someone was giggling on the other side of the barn. She stood, straining her ears. No doubt: There was the giggle again, and then she heard a voice, speaking too softly for her to understand what was said. Someone, some women were on her premises! Probably idiotic tourists, attracted by the lambs, frolicking in the old orchard. But how could they have got into the meadow? There was a reason she had fixed the bolts of the gate with a sturdy lock!

Having finally managed the gate, she stomped along the back of the barn. The soft bulge of the old terp, built more than a thousand years ago by the first settlers in the marshes, lay in the pale spring sun, empty but for a pair of wagtails, curtsying and circling each other. No sign of the sheep. So probably they really were in the orchard. _Those stupid tourist tarts have better closed the gate behind them if they meant to get out of here with all their limbs still attached!_

She was just about to turn the far corner of the barn when she heard new sounds: the distinct snorting of a horse and the shuffling of hooves. Her mood improved at once, and expecting her friend's daughter, she turned the corner only to stop again in her tracks, blinking like a drunken owl.

 _Holy cow, what had been in that home-made mirabelle schnaps she had had at her friend's an hour ago?_ Planting her hoe on the ground in an attempt to steady herself, she took a gulping breath. Instead of the one horse she had expected there were three, two greys and a shiny dark chestnut that no way could be taken for her friend's good old Wally. And neither did the riders resemble her friend's chubby daughter.

Her brow in a deep frown, the farmer took stock: three women dressed in what seemed to be medieval riding garb, two of them in their mid-twenties, tall, slim, one of them that blonde that her hair almost seemed to be white while the other sported a thick jet-black braid, both of them grey-eyed, with the kind of natural beauty that would make any Hollywood actress hide in shame. But it was the third one that really arrested her gaze. Twice the younger women's age, shorter and nowhere as lean, she radiated natural self-assurance and easy elegance as well as the kind of all-encompassing sensuality that made men drool and women feel an envy no shade of green in the whole world could suffice to depict.

Her auburn hair, the richness of which was only highlighted by the one grey strand at her temples, was held back in a voluminous bun, covered by a finely worked hair net. With a pang of realisation the farmer could not help the urge to pull the old headscarf tighter around the greying stubble her own head sported. Their eyes met, mistrustful blue-grey and deep, warm brown, and then the auburn-haired woman smiled, and pulling off an embroidered blue suede glove which the farmer could not help but notice was probably worth more than her garden would yield in an entire year, the stranger reached out a well-manicured hand.

"Well-met, mistress Thanwen."

 _Not again!_ The farmer suppressed a groan of annoyance. _Why could they not just leave her alone?_ It had been more than enough that she had let herself be pressed into writing what turned out to be a monster of forty-five chapters by that nuisance of a king some years ago... Two, or three already? For a split second she was at a loss. How time flew! But anyhow, such a thing would not happen to her again! She ignored the proffered hand and clutched her hoe, glaring at her counterpart.

"Well, as you seem to know my name, may I learn who you are and what you want?"

The auburn haired woman raised a carefully plucked eyebrow: "As for who we are: I was convinced you would recognize us. I'm Gelíris, Princess of Dol Amroth, and my companions are the Lady Éowyn, Princess of Ithilien, and my daughter Lothíriel, Queen of Rohan."

With an angry huff, the farmer grimaced. "I don't care about titles. What business do you have on my premises? And don't for one second expect me to _my lady_ or _princess_ you."

The blonde laughed. "Béma's horn! Éomer did not exaggerate when he called you the most impolite woman he had ever met."

The farmer shot her an angry glare. "What goes around comes around. And anyway: Frisian farmers have never bowed to any lord save the ones they elected themselves. We do not call ourselves frea Fresena for nothing!"

The blonde nodded, still grinning. "That I can see. And I can perfectly understand your wrath, as you had to deal with my imposing brother. He can be quite full of himself at times."

The farmer rolled her eyes, but before she could come up with a stinging remark, the black-haired woman interposed. "He certainly can, and I'm far from excusing his behaviour. But you have to admit that you made him pay dearly for his insolence. That nightmare was simply cruel."

"Cruel?" The farmer put her free hand on her hip. "It was exactly what he deserved. He blackmailed me, after having devoured the foodstuffs I had prepared for Yule."

The Queen of Rohan vigorously shook her head. "I assure you, he certainly didn't know about the food being put aside for Yule or he would not have touched it."

That gained her nothing but a haughty snort. "Really? But blackmail is all right? And what about the booze? No, Lothíriel, he may be your lord and husband and you may love him and therefore want to excuse his behaviour, but he knew only too well he was making an inroad on my supplies as well as absolutely getting on my tits, err... nerves, I mean."

Éowyn snorted with laughter, but the farmer continued her ranting. "I am sure it was his strategy to behave like an entire sunder of boars to make me want to get rid of him as soon as possible."

"And if he did, do you hold us responsible for Éomer King's behaviour?" Princess' Gelíris voice was as smooth and cool as freshly fallen powdersnow. "What are we? His appendages? You should know better than that."

The farmer had the sinking feeling of being beaten with her own weapons. Glaring angrily at the princess, she hooked her thumb under her apron string.

"Well, I suppose you are not. But what do you want here? You cannot really expect me not to be suspicious after what happened last time some of your lot visited."

Princess Gelíris removed her second glove. "I'm afraid I cannot claim to know _exactly_ what happened when my son-in-law visited, mistress Thanwen, but I assure you that none of us intends to give you any trouble."

"Sure, as long as I play along and do your bidding." The farmer's voice was bitter. "He came with the plan to get a sequel of his story by all means, not even shrinking from threats and blackmail. And now you expect me to believe that you just drop by because you are bored and thought to pay a visit for auld lang syne ?"

"Not really," Éowyn admitted. "We.."

All of a sudden a shrill noise sounded from the farmer's apron pocket, causing the horses to prick up their ears and side-step. With a frown the farmer reached into her pocket, shaking her head at the nervous mounts.

"It's just the alarm clock I set, not to forget about the bread I put in the oven. I have to get it out." For a moment she hesitated, scanning the women in front of her with a frown, and then she shrugged.

"Well, I'm in a hurry. So I suppose you had better come in. And get the saddles inside too; it looks like it might rain. Put the horses in the barn or leave them to pasture. There's grass enough if they get along with sheep. And don't forget to close the gate properly." Turning on her heel, she made for the house, but it did not escape her that the three women exchanged a quick glance before starting to take the saddles off their steeds.

Grumbling under her breath, she opened the back door. A waft of warm air, smelling mouth-wateringly of fresh bread, filled her nostrils. With a sigh she removed the gardening clogs and apron and went to scrub her hands. She had probably just made the mistake of her life, inviting those three, but what was she to do? They certainly would not have left just like that. Toweling her hands with more energy than necessary, she grimaced. It was no use to try to deceive herself: She thought she knew what the three had come for and was thrilled at the possibility of a challenge. And she was more than curious as to how they would try to convince her.

She was busy replacing the loaves with the pies she had had ready for baking on the kitchen shelf, when the three women came in from the barn, boots in hand. She could not help a grin. Someone obviously had informed them about the rules of the house. Taking the boots from them to put them out in the drying shed, she jerked her head towards the bathroom. "You can wash your hands over there. Towels are on the shelf." But when she came back inside, she found all three of them examining the bathroom rather than cleaning their hands.

"He said there is a button or a kind of lever somewhere. You probably have to press here, Éowyn." Reaching over the blonde's shoulder, Lothíriel pressed the button to flush the loo, causing the water to rush into the bowl and the two young women to giggle excitedly.

"That's really fun, and so practical." With a broad smile, Gelíris, who had been examining the sink and the tap, turned towards her. "Pray, can you really make hot water flow any time you want?"

The farmer shook her head. "No, only when the boiler is on. It heats enough water to fill a tub, but then it needs some time to heat the next fill. But I prefer to take a shower anyway." Opening the glass door of the shower cabinet, she explained the taps. "Here you adjust the amount of water and here the temperature. And here you can vary the water jet."

Admiring, Geliris passed her hand over the white and blue tiles. "How very comfortable to have such a facility." A lazy smile started to play around her full lips. "And one can use it without the help of any servant. And its so spacious, certainly two people would fit in here cosily."

The farmer grinned. "Certainly. That was the basic idea when my husband built it, replacing the old bathroom."

Lothíriel appeared at the glass door, peeking into the cabinet. "I thought it was new. Éomer found the shower of hot water wonderful, but he had some problems with the size of the cabinet."

The farmer's face darkened. _Yeah, that bloody git certainly had enjoyed the hot water, using it up and not leaving any for her when she had come home, cold and exhausted._ She would certainly not appreciate the Queen of the Mark to come back with her dratted horselord to try out the capacity of the new shower cabinet. Grumbling, she turned to Lothíriel: "He told you about it?"

The young woman shook her head. "No. He actually told me very little about the entire visit, only that he tried to convince you to continue the story. I got a bit more out of Éothain until Éomer obviously told him to shut up. It was Winfrid we got the more detailed bits of information from."

With a smirk, Éowyn joined the conversation. "And as you sent him to train at Emin Arnen there is no highly embarrassed King of the Mark to command silence. And the lad certainly has a vivid reason to be on good terms with me, as he keeps an astonishingly regular correspondence with my brother's daughter and all their letters go through my hands due to my brother's orders..."

The farmer grimaced. "Blackmail seems to run in the family."

"Oh, let's better call it diplomacy." With a nonchalant movement of her hand, Geliris shrugged. "There was never any kind of threat uttered . And I am convinced my nephew would highly condemn such an attempt. " Stepping out of the cabinet, she smiled at the farmer. "But are we not eager to repay kindness with kindness? The lad knows that Éowyn and Faramir care deeply for him and act in his favour whenever they can. So would he not be more than willing to tell any detail he remembers, once the lady showed true interest in her brother's visit?"

Grunting something unintelligible, the farmer hung a clean towel on the peg beside the sink. She had better be wary with that Dol Amroth minx of a princess. That woman was no doubt able to piss down people's backs and make them believe it was raining.

"One good turn deserves another." Opening the tap, Éowyn started to wash her hands. "I trust him and never cast as much as a single glance at what he writes to Aldburg and he satisfied my curiosity, though there still are many things he did not really understand himself and therefore could not explain properly."

The farmer snorted. "Curiosity! And now you want me to believe that that's the reason why the three of you turn up here? That you just came along for curiosity's sake?"

Reaching for the soap, Lothíriel shrugged. "I know it killed the cat, but so what? Our husbands are on an inspection trip in South Ithilien. Do you expect us to sit at home, dutifully waiting for their return?"

"Where is _your_ husband, by the way? I would really like to come to know him." Gelíris' voice was low and smooth, causing the farmer to clench her teeth. _Why had she written that dratted princess as such a tempting and intelligent woman?_ For a split second she thought about adding a huge furuncle to Gelíris' nose or, even worse, to saddle her with a stupid giggle.

Walking back to the kitchen, she said as detached as possible: "He went to visit some relatives and won't be back until tomorrow," adding in her mind: "When _you_ hopefully will be gone again."

Shaking her head about her thoughts, the farmer put the bottle with the home-made raspberry liqueur and some shot glasses on the table and went to fetch the biscuit tin that held her shortbread. She had bid them enter her house, so a "welcome cup" and some treats were certainly due.

And they certainly were a success. Cursing her own vanity, after the fulsome praise the beverage had received, the farmer could not but top up the glasses and pass the tin around for a second time.

Lothíriel sighed. "That much at least my husband told me, that he had found your food and drinks some of the best he had tasted in his life."

Knocking back her second liqueur, Éowyn nodded. "Winfrid told me Éomer had truly been delighted." Motioning to the table, where three loaves of crusty bread were cooling now, she continued. "The scenes really match. Your husband had been taking the fresh loaves out of the oven then, and he made his guests sit down once he learned that they had come for you and offered them bread and beer."

The farmer put down the bottle with a thud. "He did. And your brother had nothing better to do than to abuse my husband's hospitality. The poor man didn't know who they were, could not understand them, save for the fact that they had come to see me, but he made them comfortable, gave them food and drink, hot water, dry clothes and a bed, only to be tricked by that bloody git of a King of the Mark into signing a written contract he could not even read. That was simply indecent."

Lothíriel had the grace to blush. "I know it was. But please consider that Éomer got the idea for that contract when he was already rather drunk." She grimaced, raising her hands apologetically. "I don't know what they drank, for neither he nor Éothain remembered having drunk anything like that before, but it must have been uncommonly potent."

The farmer grunted. "It was rum. My best, a special treat for Yule. And quite luckily I had only bought three bottles or they would have drunk themselves into a stupor. But be that as it may. I think you can understand that such behaviour doesn't endear any visitors."

"We certainly can, mistress Thanwen. And I assure you that we do not intend to pilfer your stores."

Gelíris' attempt to soothe the farmer's ruffled feathers by showing polite understanding immediately came to naught by Éowyn, who, stuffing her mouth with a second shortbread-finger, already reached for a third one. "Delicious. Winfrid had been going on about these butter-cakes, and they truly deserve his praise." She gave the farmer a wide grin. "He told me that he nearly drowned in the slobber of that huge black dog of yours as soon as he had been given the cake box by your husband." For a split second, a frown appeared on Éowyn's face. "Where is that dog, by the way?"

The farmer shrugged. "Died last spring, being almost fourteen years. A really blessed age for a dog that size."

"Still it's a pity. Winfrid was simply smitten by her. Ebba it was, wasn't it? Blimey, these cakes are addictive." Totally unabashed, Éowyn reached for another helping.

The farmer fought to keep her mien casual. This was getting dangerous: If this really was the challenge she thought it to be, and what was more, if she wanted to accept it, she needed her mind to be alert, not bleared and distracted by talk about that good old dog she still missed so much, and the praise of the foodstuffs she had made. She had better find out what exactly the three women had turned up for and then get rid of them before they could influence her. Setting the alarm-clock for the pies, she went directly for it. "Now girls, let's put the pleasantries aside and start talking business: What exactly do you want?"

 **Annotations:**

 **verdoori:** (Plattdeutsch/Low German) damned

 **no(ch)mal:** (Plattdeutsch/Low German) again

It actually means something like "twice cursed".

 **terp:** artificial mound or hillock, built to keep people, buildings and livestock from drowning at storm tides before the first dykes were built along the coast of the North Sea

 **Frea Fresena:** (East-Frisian) free Frisians

A big THANK YOU! goes to the ladies of the "Garden" for their support and especially to Lady Bluejay who helped me as a beta- reader and killed the worst of my Germanisms. Any that are still there are my own. ;)


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter II**

Éowyn picked up the lid of the biscuit tin and resolutely closed the tin, facing her with as determined a mien as she must have shown facing Angmar. "Have you never thought of writing a sequel?"

The farmer crossed her arms in front of her chest. "Why should I?"

"Because there still are some loose threads."

 _Why was the voice of Imrahil's wife always so smooth and friendly, even if she said the most unfriendly things?_ Going into a huff, the farmer placed the tin on the shelf. "Nonsense. That story was a gap-filler, and developed the way the professor had intended it to do. So what needs to be done should be done by Éowyn and Faramir. There is nothing _I_ have to do about it."

Eyeing her over the rim of her glass, Gelíris shook her head. "I'm not talking about _that_. I dare say those two are fine so far. It's the Mark that you left with unsolved problems."

The farmer lifted her chin. "Beg your pardon, but your daughter and her spouse are grown-ups and should be able to solve their own problems."

"Our own problems, no doubt," Lothíriel chimed in, her intonation resembling her mother's in an almost stunning way. "But what about the Airik-affair you saddled us – or rather poor old Egefride - with?"

"Poor old Egefride!" The farmer snorted. "The woman might be old, but to call her "poor" is absolute baloney. She's as keen as a well-honed battle-axe."

Lothíriel shrugged. "True, but she can't do anything without the king's orders."

"So what? Since when does your horselord feel reluctant to order things to be done the way he wants them to be done?" Her face in a deep frown, the farmer was tapping her foot now. _What an idiotic attempt to make her feel sorry for a man who had dared to bully her in her own house!_ But somehow the Queen of the Mark seemed to be truly uneasy.

"I think he simply doesn't know what to do as he's afraid it might displease you and therefore endanger the well-being of his family and people."

"What utter nonsense!" Propping both fists on the kitchen table, the farmer glared at Lothíriel. "The professor says Éomer was called Éadig and lived a long and blessed life. Even if I thought he deserved a well-aimed kick, I would never muddle with canon. What does that spouse of yours take me for? Some evil witch?"

Lothíriel grimaced. "Well, he never told me explicitly, but that certainly hits near the mark." She sighed, raising her hands in a helpless gesture. "He's a true son of Eorl; he can't help being superstitious, and after what happened to him the last time he certainly doesn't wish to anger you."

The farmer laughed. "My favourite poet Heinrich Heine once said that kings should show authors the respect due to them and fear their abilities to ridicule them, but I don't deem myself in the same league with him."

The Queen of the Mark was visibly not amused. "Be that as it may. But you didn't leave any hints as to how Airik's story will continue, and the professor does not say anything about her as she is _your_ character. So we are stuck with her, much to the displeasure of everybody involved. I told Éomer to try talking to you again, but he outright refused, even when Éowyn and Gelíris supported my opinion."

Having quietly finished her drink, Gelíris of Dol Amroth put down her glass. "I tried to explain that I could not imagine any witch, no matter how evil, to be unmoved by a rather smashing barbarian grovelling at her feet, but I could not convince him."

It afforded the farmer some willpower to get the image of said barbarian's grovelling out of her mind. Pointedly, she cleared her throat. "And rather than coming himself, he sent you? What a coward!"

Lothíriel shook her head. "No, he doesn't even know we came"

 _Well, at least that meant that they would be eager to get back soon, wouldn't it?_ But she would be careful not to buy anything these three tried to sell her. Tilting her head, and putting on a haughty expression, she asked: "And who told you about the way, if not he?"

It did not impress her visitors at all. Éowyn merely shrugged. "Winfrid is quite a clever lad."

 _It wouldn't work like that._ With a sigh, the farmer raised her hands. "I see. Look, girls: It's not that I'm unwilling to write a sequel, but time is always such a bother. That was exactly what I told Éomer when he came, but he simply was impatient and wanted to get his will. That's how the entire crap started."

"I'm not asking for forty-five chapters, mistress Thanwen." Lothíriel's voice sounded almost pleading.

The farmer grimaced. "I know. But I suffer from Lialathuverilitis: Once I start writing, a thousand ideas pop up and what was intended as a rather short story becomes quite epic." The farmer sat down and propped her head on her hand. She had known it all the time that that damned loose thread would come and bite her bum one day. And had not Borys warned her immediately when she had posted the last chapter? It had been sloppy work and now there obviously was no decent way out of it but to write that blasted sequel.

With a grunt, the farmer motioned to the women to take a seat at the large kitchen table. "Well, being women endowed with reason, we should be able to come to an agreement. Tell me what you want, and I tell you what can be done and how much time I will need. But first we'll better have a bite and a draught to help thinking."

Soon everybody was helping themselves to buttered slices of still hot bread and ripe cheese, while the farmer poured cool, frothy beer for them from the typical green bottles of the local brewery.

"Ah, that's just what it needs with a good chunk of fresh bread." Having downed half of her glass in one gulp, Éowyn eyed the beer approvingly. Lothíriel also drank the well-hoped brew with obvious delight, while her mother seemed quite reluctant, sipping rather for politeness sake.

"It tastes quite bitter after the sweetness of the liqueur, doesn't it?" The farmer gave her a thoughtful look. "Perhaps I had better make you something more dainty. How do you feel about a cocktail?"

"A cock what?" Éowyn almost sputtered the mouthful of beer across the table.

The farmer guffawed. "For goodness sake! Get your mind out of the gutter, girl! One could think you were AnnaFan's Éowyn! Cocktail, I said. Like in "coloured feathers"!"

But Éowyn was not that easily convinced. "And what could such feathers have to do with a drink?"

The farmer shrugged. "Oh, the different colours. And perhaps the different tastes. It is a kind of punch, a mixture of all kind of ingredients, so everybody can find their own."

Éowyn frowned. "Like with a perfume?"

The farmer chuckled. "Exactly. Only that you don't dab your outside with it but rather wet your inside. But I'm sure I can concoct something that mirrors your respective personalities. Just a minute, I'll show you."

Still chuckling, the farmer dived into her cellar. Soon everything that was needed stood to attention on the large kitchen-table, much to the surprise of her visitors.

"For Uinen's mercy. Do you run an inn or something the like?" It was the Lady Gelíris who uttered what probably all three of them were thinking.

The farmer shook her head. "No. And I myself don't even drink much of this stuff. But I am holding a course on cocktail making with in-house means for the Farmers Wives Association next Sunday." She grinned. "You see, cocktails are very popular with the ladies, but people tend to make such a fuss about how difficult and expensive it is to make them and how much special equipment you need, so I just felt challenged to prove the opposite."

The Queen of Rohan eyed the assembly of bottles, glasses and fruit suspiciously. "I am sure one can mix some kind of punch from all this, and probably certain people will prefer certain mixtures, but I am not convinced that there could be a drink that represents a person."

"No?" The farmer smirked at her. "Then let me show you a quite tell-tale Lothíriel cocktail."

With nimble hands she selected three bottles. "So here we have white rum, Blue Curaçao, orange juice, a lemon. Ah well, and I'll need some ice cubes." Having fetched the necessary item from the freezer, she took up a white wine glass, put a couple of cubes in it and winked at her guests. "So, here we go. First of all we need some ice to keep things cool. Then some rum to make them strong. And now there comes a touch of Dol Amroth." She added a measure of the blue liqueur.

"How beautiful!" Smiling with surprised delight, Gelíris reached for the glass to have a closer look. "That truly could be called a Dol Amroth drink."

"Could it?" Grinning, the farmer cut up the lemon with swift movements and then held the result up for the others to see: a lemon slice, shaped like a multi-rayed star or a sun the way children would draw it. "So in this glass we have Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, clear, strong and cool, and now there comes a certain horselord who not only bears the white horse in his standard, but also the sun. Now let's see what happens, when these two meet." She added the lemon to the blue liquid, and under the women's watchful eyes that started to turn a deep green around the edges of the slice.

Éowyn laughed. "Looks the "horselord" is putting out feelers into Dol Amroth." Even Lothíriel's forceful dig in her ribs did nothing to quench her mirth.

The farmer cleared her throat. "Well, to keep things decent, we had better make things official. So here comes the wedding." With that she poured some orange juice into the glass and stirred the contents, which immediately turned the colour of lush grass. Adding a white straw, she shoved the glass over to the black-haired woman. "So here you are, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, now queen of the Mark. Have a try!"

Said queen of the Mark gingerly took the proffered glass and tried a quite reluctant sip, her face brightening up immediately. "Very nice. So fresh and fruity." With that she passed the glass to her mother for a try.

"Oh, you had better …" Her presence of mind kicking in, the farmer bit her tongue. _Let them find out about the hidden vice of "fresh and fruity" by themselves. It was not as if she was forcing anybody to drink the stuff, was she?_

Gelíris took a sip, rolling the liquid carefully in her mouth, before swallowing it, and then she nodded appreciating, passing the drink back to her daughter. "Fresh and fruity indeed. But I dare say there's a quite strong spirit lurking under that cover."

The farmer couldn't help a grin. She should have known that the princess of Dol Amroth was experienced in more than polite conversation. With an acknowledging nod, she shoved the white rum over to Gelíris. "Have a sip, but be careful. It truly is quite strong. It has no proper taste in itself, but it carries all kinds of flavours admirably."

Raising the bottle to her lips, Gelíris took a cautious sip and them shook herself. "That truly is vile. But didn't you say it was rum? Like the drink Éomer enjoyed so much?"

"There's rum and rum," the farmer explained. "What the men drank was old dark rum and a quite mellow variety."

Lothíriel took the bottle and sniffed at the opening. "Probably "Bosun's death" or something the like", she remarked. "But it goes nicely with the other ingredients." With a malicious grin she turned to the farmer. "Well, what about a drink for the Princess of Ithilien now?"

The farmer laughed. "Let's see what can be done. But for someone as stubborn as Éowyn more force is needed." Filling some ice-cubes into a small plastic bag, she put it on a thick chopping board and swiftly crushed it with the help of a mallet. "And it doesn't mix as easy as the "Lothíriel", so we need vigour but also patient persistence." Winking at Lothíriel, she tipped the crushed ice into a plastic shaker and reached for the bottles. "There is a trace of Morwen of Lossarnach in her, so we will have a dash of Dol Amroth, that is Curaçao. Well, and she has a partiality for the exotic, so here comes some pineapple juice."

"Pine apple as in pine cone?" Éowyn visibly was at a loss.

Laughing, the farmer shook her head. "No, not at all. It's a big yellow fruit, and a quite tasty one, too." Pointing at the label of the bottle, she added. "As you can see, the pattern on the fruit skin looks a bit like the one on a closed pine cone, but otherwise they have nothing in common. I might have some canned pineapple, so you can have a taste of it later. Well now, back to the cocktail. Éowyn is called the "White Lady" in Gondor, so we need something white. Here comes some cream. And all that's left now to make her show herself is to shake." And that she did. Wetting the brim of a champagne saucer afterwards, she dipped it into the sugar pot. To the wonder of her visitors, the crystals stuck to the moisture, making the brim look like covered in hoarfrost. And then she poured the shaken liquid into the saucer and shoved the slightly opaque turquoise drink towards her baffled guest. "Her comes my Éowyn cocktail. I think I'll call it Glacier Run-off."

Éowyn's eyes rivalled the size of the saucer. "Béma! It really looks like that!"

"I assure you, it doesn't taste like it!" The farmer grinned mischievously. "It's smooth and sweet, though strong. Nothing to fool around with."

Gingerly, Éowyn raised the glass and carefully touched the crystals around the rim with the tip of her tongue. With an exclamation of surprise, she set it down again. "It's sweet, not salty or bitter and not cold either, though it certainly looks like salt or ice."

The farmer laughed. "The harshness and cold are just pretense. Just go and ask a certain Steward about that."

She was sure that the gesture Éowyn made at her remark had to be a Rohirric equivalent of _the finger_ , but before the situation could escalate further, Geliris reached out an elegant finger and picked a few crumbs from the sugar pot. "Truly sweet."

"Refined sugar," the farmer explained. "The most common way to sweeten things in this world. Though it is not good for your teeth if you eat too much of it. But that seems the way of the world anyway: All things that are fun are forbidden by law, bad for your health or said to be indecent."

Giggling with the others, Éowyn took a testing sip."Erce's tits. This stuff is certainly worth being a tad indecent!"

"Let me have a try." Taking her sister-in-law's drink, Lothíriel sipped and then smacked her lips, winking at Éowyn. "I bet you, things will get more than just a _tad_ indecent if you serve that to your husband."

Busy, making the same cocktail for Gelíris, the farmer grinned. "You had better watch it though, not to give him too much as you might find you expectations thwarted."

"That certainly does not only apply to _that_ drink." Gelíris full lips curved in a knowing smile. "There is nothing but a little alcohol to forward a man's performance, but if you are keen to bring in a good harvest you should be wary to really make it just a little."

Éowyn frowned. "I just wonder, how much booze it takes before a man suffers from brewer's droop."

"Fancy trying out?" Lothíriel's grin was positively wicked, answered by Éowyn with a fake expression of haughtiness.

"No, I don't. I rather leave it to you to experiment with my sot of a brother. But I fancy guzzling the drink that was especially made for me. So paws off, sister."

Laughing, Lothíriel ceded the glass to her, only to make a grab for the one the farmer had put before her mother in the meantime. "This one is much too northern for you, mother. Let our generous host come up with something especially for you."

With a wry grin the farmer turned to Geliris: "Well, what would fit the mermaid of Dol Amroth?"

Scanning the battery of bottles, she reached for the orange-juice. "No doubt something _fresh and fruity_ , but certainly with a dash of temptation." She placed the raspberry liqueur beside the juice bottle. "And then there is a very high amount of danger." This time the dark rum was sorted out. "And deep down there is a touch of the South." She reached for the banana juice and then spooned three ice-cubes into a champagne flute, added the banana juice and a good shot of rum and filled the glass halfway with orange-juice before letting the raspberry liqueur flow along the spoon into the tall glass.

"How lovely!" Lothíriel exclaimed as the scarlet liqueur settled unmixed at the bottom of the glass, leaving the surface of the drink in undisturbed orange. "Like a sunset out over the sea."

Spitting two cocktail cherries and a slice of orange on a thin skewer and adding it, the farmer shoved the glass over to the princess of Dol Amroth. "Mermaid's Sunset," she said with a wink. "You had better stir it before you drink it, though that will spoil the look."

ooooooo

Many thanks go to the ladies of "The Garden" and especially to **Lady Bluejay** who helped me with the language. I suppose she was happy she only had to do proof-reading and no proof-drinking. ;D


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter III**

For a while all were busy with their drinks, and the farmer was hiding a grin until Éowyn noticed that their host was sitting there, watching them. Squinting an eye, she asked, something like a threat in her voice: "And what are _you_ going to drink?"

The farmer met her gaze squarely: "My favourite: "The Witch's Smile."

Éowyn frowned. "The witches smile? That certainly is a strange name."

Smirking, the farmer shook her head. "Not at all. Drink two of it and you won't get the stupid grin off your face."

With that the farmer started to concoct a mixture of ice, vodka, peppermint liqueur and orange juice. She had just put the viciously green drink down after the first sip when Éowyn, who had finished her own drink by then, reached for it, took a large gulp and then nodded approvingly.

"Hmm... Not bad at all. Even better than the stuff you made for Loth."

"Shall I make one for you?" The farmer's eyes sparkled maliciously, as she was thinking of the effect it would certainly have if the Princess of Ithilien continued to drink at that speed, but to her utter disappointment, Imrahil's wife had exactly the same idea.

"You had better watch it, Éowyn." Gelíris' laughter chimed like a small silver bell. "You have been told about its effects and it certainly doesn't have its name for nothing."

"Nonsense." Taking another gulp, Éowyn made clear that she would not heed Gelíris' warning. "I'm of the Mark and used to more than small beer."

Hiding her glee, the farmer shrugged. "Don't you worry, Gelíris. She killed the Witchking. No way a crummy Witch's Smile would sweep her off her legs. Anybody else for another try?"

Gelíris shook her head, but Lothíriel pointed at the empty glass of Éowyn's first cocktail. "I would like something with cream. Something different if possible."

The farmer reached for the bottles. "A Blushing Maiden it is then."

"A Blushing Maiden?" Snorting with laughter, Éowyn nudged her sister-in-law, never letting go of the glass.

"You'll see," said the farmer, already busy sorting out the ingredients and filling the plastic bag with ice cubes. "First thing now I need some crushed ice."

Éowyn downed the rest of her drink and grinning like a fool, she reached for the mallet. "Let me do that. I better crush than blush."

She made short work of the cubes, while the farmer poured white rum, raspberry liqueur and cream into the shaker. Soon the frothy bright pink cocktail was ready to be poured into a wide champagne saucer.

Raising her hand, Éowyn interrupted the farmer's motion. "Wait. What about such a nice sweet crystal brim as on my drink?"

"No problem." Pouring a small amount of the liqueur into a saucer, the farmer dipped the brim of the glass into it and then into the sugar, causing the tiny crystals to turn a deep scarlet before filling the glass.

With a mocking bow, Éowyn handed it over to Lothíriel. "Her you are, my blushing maiden. Though I'll have to ask my bumbling brother about the maiden and learn what can make you blush."

Not heading Gelíris' slightly worried glance, Éowyn slammed her own empty glass on the table. "And now _I_ would like to have something altogether unmaidenly."

The farmer smiled gleefully. "What about a Cesspool?"

Snorting through her straw, Lothíriel caused her drink to bubble, while her mother's immaculate eyebrows almost reached her hairline. "Did you really say _cesspool_?"

The farmer's grin deepened. "I did. And you'll perfectly understand once you see it, though the taste is different from what the name suggests."

Fetching a pint glass, the farmer started to spoon ice-cubes into it, when Éowyn interrupted. "Wait. You mean to fill _that_ glass?"

"Didn't you say you wanted something _unmaidenly?_ And anyway, you can share, can't you?"

Adding a hefty shot of the dark rum, the farmer opened the Amaretto. Obviously uneasy, Gelíris interrupted her movement. "What is that?"

"An almond liqueur. Have a try."

Filling a shot glass with the dark golden liqueur, the farmer shoved it across the table towards the princess of Dol Amroth, who took it and gingerly raised it to her nose before tasting it. With an approving nod, Gelíris handed the glass to her daughter for a sample, before Éowyn reached for it and downed the rest, smacking her lips afterwards. "Lovely. I certainly could get used to that."

The farmer laughed. "Why not take the bottle with you then? I can easily get a second one until next Sunday."

Grinning, the queen of Rohan took the shot glass from Éowyn and held it out for a second fill. "She would have to share with me if I knew she had a bottle of this stuff." Shoving the glass over to her sister-in-law after having taken a sip, she added: "But unfortunately nothing from your world can be taken to Middle earth, mistress Thanwen."

The farmer frowned. "How do you know that? There are thousands of stories about girls falling into Middle earth, and..."

Lothíriel laughed. "We haven't heard about any living beings coming to Gondor or Rohan yet, but should it be possible for them to do so, they would arrive stark naked for certainly no _thing_ that belongs to your world can make it into Middle earth. I know that for sure, for Éothain tried to take one bottle of beer with him. Winfrid saw him, putting it into his saddlebag, but when they opened the bag back home the bottle was gone."

 _Now things were starting to make sense._ The farmer nodded. "I found a bottle on the terp, the morning after they had left, and wondered how it had come there."

During their conversation, she had added some Amaretto and several spoons of finely chopped fruit and filled three quarters of the pint glass with viscid apricot juice. Éowyn eyed the drink suspiciously. "That looks quite fine to me and like nothing that the name suggests."

With a malicious grin, the farmer added a shot of dark red cherry-juice. "And now comes the plunge into the cesspool!" She stirred the contents. Immediately the rich gold-orange liquid turned a dull brown, the bits of fruit swimming in it only highlighting the dubious colour and consistency.

"Goodness, that really looks gross! You had better close your eyes when you drink it, Wyn." Lothíriel had raised a hand to he mouth, eyeing the cocktail gingerly, obviously torn between laughter and disgust.

The Shieldmaiden showed no hint of reluctance as she reached for the glass and took a hearty gulp. "Béma's foreskin! That truly is wicked. All smooth and aromatic, but I bet it makes one grow chest hair."

The farmer shrugged, busy with making another cocktail for herself. "I don't force anybody to drink what I mix, and as one of our wise men said some centuries ago: Only the dose makes the poison."

When finally everybody had a filled glass before them, she went to fetch a sheet of paper and a pencil. Putting said items before her on the kitchen table, she faced her guests. "Well, here we go. You," she pointed at the queen of the Mark, "complained about loose threads and I'm afraid you are right. Others beside you have complained, but as a matter of fact I was so fed-up with that story in the end that my one and only thought was to get it over and done with."

"Fed up with it?" Éowyn 's voice was sharp with complaint. "But all the really good stuff was happening in the last chapters." She waved her hand about, not aiming at anybody special. "You didn't give me such a wedding night and..."

"Shut it, would you?" The farmer glared at her. "Your story was T-rated, and I already put as much as I dared into it." She pointed at the by now scarlet-faced queen of the Mark. "Hers was M, at least the second story, meaning it was labelled for containing what people over here would call adult topics."

Éowyn sniffed, but before she could give any rude answer, Gelíris intervened. "Well Dear, I think we don't have to fix any rating or whatever you call it now but had rather come to an agreement on the plot of the story."

The farmer nodded mutely, and Gelíris shot her a brilliant smile. "Well, I suppose we should first try to get an overview of what needs to be fixed and perhaps then we decide how the single aspects..."

"No! Bloody effing NO!" The farmer was livid. "I am not letting anyone mess with what I'm going to write. If you are not satisfied with my story, go and write your own."

"Dear mistress Thanwen ..."

"Just stop _mistressing_ me. I said no, and I don't like to repeat myself." Crossing her arms in front of her chest, the farmer glared at Imrahil's wife.

Her face all composed politeness, the princess of Dol Amroth tilted her head. "I'm afraid you mistook my intention. It is far from me to try any _messing_ with the story, as you put it. It certainly is your story and therefore yours to decide how and when it should continue. But you have to admit that the way you write it concerns our lives. So how can we not have certain wishes or at least be interested in it?"

"And even if you decide in the end, should not any ruler heed their subjects and chose their counsellors from amongst them?", Lothíriel seconded her mother.

The farmer snorted angrily. "In my world we call what you do _lobbying_ , and I simply don't like it."

"Why don't we tell you our problems and suggestions and then simply leave it to you to decide?" Éowyn clearly favoured the pragmatic approach. "As Loth told you, Éomer wants to get rid of Airik in a decent way. Well, I'm not telling you how to solve that, as I'm at a dead loss as far as letters are concerned anyway."

"Look, mistress Thanwen," Lothíriel chimed in, "I simply want to ease my husband's mind. You know there are more battles to come on the eastern and southern borders of Gondor and he is meant to lead his éohere at the side of King Elessar against Gondor's foes. Can't you understand that it would greatly reassure him to have peace at the western borders of the Mark?"

The farmer frowned. "That 's more than just getting rid of Airik."

"But it could be done?" The young queen looked at her with eager hope.

The farmer grimaced thoughtfully. "It's a matter of time. If I do it, I would want to do it properly, and that would need more than just two or three chapters."

"How many?" The hopeful eyes turned determined.

Suppressing a sigh, the farmer calculated the demand. "As a rough estimate, nine at least, I would think." She felt a quite severe headache coming on. _Why in Morgoth name had she agreed to this horse trade?_

"So you already have an idea what to do"?

That dratted queen of the Mark now obviously had tuned into some kind of "regal modus", her voice having the undertone of demand. The farmer squared her shoulders. No way she was letting herself be pushed by a girlie one third of her own age. Raising her eyebrows haughtily, she faced down the young queen. "I already had more than only _one_ idea when I posted the last chapter of your story. What I didn't have was time."

"I see... " Lothíriel hesitated. "Will it be a … Mind you, I'm not asking for any details, but will it be a peaceful solution?"

The farmer shrugged. "Peaceful certainly is nice for those who have to live it, but does seldom make for a good story. Readers want tension, some action, even if most of them want a happy ending." Seeing the young woman's worried gaze, she felt somehow mollified and added: "I'm not writing violence for violence's sake. And the same goes for sex. Things must have some importance for the development of the plot to make sense in a story. But yes, I was thinking about some skirmishes, but don't you worry. Your horselord won't be involved."

"At least not at the sharp end," she constrained after a sip from her cocktail. _One certainly shouldn't let oneself be nailed down on things one wasn't entirely sure about yet._

Putting her glass on the table, she leaned back with a sigh. "Well, I'll deal with that Airik woman and make sure the western borders of the Mark are safe. I promise to write as regularly and as fast as possible, but I'm not discussing any details, all right?"

Lothíriel nodded. "Certainly nobody could ask more, mistress Thanwen."

The farmer frowned suspiciously at the humble tone. She was convinced there was something fishy, especially when she caught Gelíris' nervous twitching. Facing the princess of Dol Amroth, she barked bluntly: "What is it?"

For the first time since she had arrived something like unease showed on the princess' face. "I thought, once we were here, I might perhaps draw your attention to my son Erchirion who at the moment is stranded in Rohan at your behest."

The farmer suppressed a groan. "So what? He's fine there, he'll join the King of the Mark in the fights against Gondor's enemies in the east and south..."

Shaking her head, Gelíris interrupted. "I am sure he'll do that, for I know he'll fulfil his duties to king and country." She heaved a breath. "But what besides that? A man's life should not consist of battles only. I wish you could give him a fulfilling, peaceful future. A wife, I mean, and children."

Grinning at her mother over the brim of her glass, Lothíriel took another sip of her drink. "What about the widow with three kids and at least five mares? He has been talking about that joke since the idea had come up that he should spend some time in the Riddermark to study the Eorlingas' way of fighting on horseback."

The farmer swiftly calculated how much alcohol each of them had already drunk and then reached for the orange juice to top off her own drink, before grunting an answer. "Never you worry. He'll get the widow, and three kids are fine by me. I'm even ready to give him fifty mares instead of just five, but that will have to be another story, or the first one will never get finished."

She could not fail to see the expression of relief flit over Gelíris' features. "I noway meant to rush you, mistress Thanwen. And I'm sure you will excuse a mother's anxiety."

The farmer rolled her eyes. _Nothing was worse than melodramatics._ Facing her guests squarely, she raised her glass. "Anything else, girls, once we are at it?"

"Winfrid."

Éowyn's interjection sounded like a gunshot. The farmer gave her a slightly worried glance. She had expected the Shieldmaiden to be able to hold her drink, but obviously the mixture of drinks and the speed with which she had knocked them back were taking their toll.

"What about Winfrid? He's put up snug at Emyn Arnen..." Becoming suspicious, she glared at Éowyn. "Are you trying to tell me you want to get rid of him?"

"Naaa." Waving her hand with the half-filled glass about in a quite precarious way, Éowyn shook her head. "He's a sweet little bugger, and we'd love to keep him. But though he'll probably stay a midget all his life he'll become a man otherwise." With a resolute movement Éowyn emptied her glass, set it on the kitchen table forcefully and glared at the farmer. "You made him that size, you give him a good lass, or I'll ..."

"Éowyn!" The simultaneous cry from two mouths caused the Shieldmaiden to stop dead. "Oh bugger! I'm ruining everything." Shaking her head in obvious befuddlement, Éowyn reached for her now empty glass. "I probably better had another drink to shut me up."

"The only thing you are going to drink is water, sister." Lothíriel's voice had a noticeable edge to it, and the responding glance her sister-in-law gave her was no way peaceful.

The farmer suppressed a groan. _Wonderful! A rat-arsed Shieldmaiden and a no way completely sober Pirate Queen brawling at her kitchen table! What had she done to deserve such punishment?_

"Girls." It was Gelíris' voice, low but firm, nipping the oncoming row in the bud. Blushing furiously, both young women lowered their heads, which the farmer thought to be most convenient, as it prevented them from seeing the knowing grin she and the princess of Dol Amroth exchanged.

"I suppose we had better switch to less challenging drinks, mistress Thanwen, don't you agree?" Gelíris' eyes wandered to the juice bottles and the farmer nodded. Wordlessly she filled glasses with a mixture of pineapple, banana and orange juice, thus emptying the opened bottles, and then went to put a large jug of tap water on the table.

Without looking at her, Éowyn filled her empty glass with water and downed it. With a sigh, the farmer shoved a glass of juice towards her. "Have that. The contained minerals will do more to prevent a hangover than just the water." The Shieldmaiden's head jerked up violently, but before she could say anything, the farmer forestalled her. "I'm not saying you'll have one, but I think it wise to take precautions against nasty things if possible. And as for Winfrid, I'll think about it. Just don't ask everything at once. And anyway, just romance doesn't make a good story."

The grin was back now on Éowyn's face. "Perhaps not, but there is nothing like a bit of smut to make a good story even better."

The farmer straightened her shoulders. "May I remind you how old Winfrid is? I'm no way writing explicit scenes with minors."

"But it doesn't need to be "explicit"!" Lothíriel exclaimed, "At least not if "explicit" means what I think it means."

"It means calling a shag a shag," Éowyn volunteered, and then shrugged. "Be that as it may, I still don't understand why a lad should be old enough to die but too young to have some fun. Time has passed since your last story, mind you. He's going to be sixteen in a few months, old enough to join an éored. And from what I have been told about his sheets..."

The farmer slammed her glass on the table. "I said no. Which part of the word you don't comprehend? Write it yourself, if you are so keen on it."

"Well, I suppose it would be advisable to have the boy wait a bit, my Dear." Smiling benevolently, the princess of Dol Amroth reached for a glass of juice. "When mistress Thanwen has solved the Airik affair and found the energy and the time to set Erchirion up nicely..."

"Mann in de Tünn!" The farmer groaned. "How many hours do you think my days have?"

Lothíriel glared at her mother over her drink. "Well, mother, I'm afraid your obsession with a story for Erchirion and my dear sister's behaviour have nettled our host a bit. May I remind you that it was _me_ you feared would drop the brick?"

 _Who might have thought that the queen of the Mark had a tendency to become cantankerous when drunk?_ The farmer fought to hide her grin. Gelíris chose to ignore her daughter's complaint, and for a moment none of the women said anything, until Éowyn reached again for the water jug.

"Open mouth, insert foot." Éowyn cupped her chin in her hand. "It's useless to pretend we're not all of us eager to have our own stories continued, or those of the people we love. The problem is that one good story finished heightens the appetite for more. It's the same as with your bloody cocktails... and some other things I won't mention because you seem to have your prissy season at the moment."

The farmer snorted. "I have been accused of a lot of things in my long life, but prissiness is certainly something new." She rose to leave the table, but Gelíris reached across it and caught her hand.

"Don't take offence, mistress Thanwen. Éowyn is very dear to me, but we all know how stubborn she can be at times."

Her daughter nodded, grimacing at the Shieldmaiden. "A mule is a shining example of patience and insight compared to her. But I bet my saddle she will not write even a single sentence of any story herself."

Éowyn stuck out her tongue and then laughed. "No, I surely wouldn't. You'd be perfectly safe with that. Just a typical Gondorean coward, not taking any risky bet. Writing!" She snorted. "You and your obsessive letter writing. And I bet what you wrote to my brother was not at all "T-rated" or what you call it, for I've been told that the entire staff at Meduseld knew when that plonker had got a new letter, because he would not leave his den for hours."

The farmer looked at Gelíris, both of them shaking their heads in the mutual feeling of second-hand embarrassment. _Goodness, two of the highest ranking women of the Fourth Age behaving like sloshed teenage girls!_

"Could you perhaps refrain from hitting low, girls?" Gelíris' voice was back to resolute politeness. "We came here to convince mistress Thanwen to turn back to writing and not to indulge your immature squabbles."

Lothíriel sighed and was not quite successful in hiding her grin. "It's the cocktails, mother. Liquid courage."

"Blimey, Loth, just imagine how much Dúrion of Adab-en-Celon would have to drink to be able to face down his bitch of a wife!" Éowyn nudged her sister-in-law and both young women collapsed giggling on the table.

The farmer grimaced. "I just hope that doesn't give you the idea to ask me to write a story for him too."

Still giggling, the queen of the Mark shook her head. "No way would we ask you to waste your time on him. I would be thankful if you sorted out Éomer's problems, and double so if you could write a really nice story for Erchirion, for he truly deserves some happiness. But I understand you need to write those things at your own pace and without our interference, no matter what my dear sister thinks." She stuck out her tongue at her sister-in-jaw in turn, a gesture that caused her mother to raise her eyebrows and Éowyn to guffaw.

"Love you too, Loth. Well, mistress Thanwen, I'll stop pestering you with a story for Winfrid. Let's wait until he's older. But hey, you ought to give him a chaste romance at least as soon as he's sixteen. But perhaps we could get you to write something "explicit" for somebody else in the meantime?"

Her eyes shone with glee, and the farmer saw Gelíris frown at the opposite side of the table. But before the princess could call the young women to order, Lothíriel, her voice hiccuping with mischievous laughter, said: "Perhaps Amrothos?"

"That idiot deserves to be saddled with an orc." Despite her grim statement, Éowyn's face still showed a wide grin, whereas Gelíris tried in vain to hide her displeasure.

Grinning herself now, the farmer winked at the princess of Dol Amroth. "Don't you worry. I'll make him Gondor's ambassador in Umbar instead and saddle him with a spit-fire pirate-merchant's daughter from Harad."

The young women laughed, but Gelíris remained serious. "I know he can be quite a nuisance, but for all his recklessness he is a loving son and brother and deserves a happy future."

"Did I say he won't be happy?" The farmer's remarked was followed by more giggles and laughter, but before Gelíris could protest, everything was interrupted by the shrill of the alarm clock. The farmer stood, fetching a pot-cloth. "Time for the pies, girls."

 **Annotations:**

Mann in de Tünn! (Plattdeutsch/Low German) expression of annoyance or surprise, literally : Man in the barrel!

Many thanks go to the ladies of "The Garden" and especially to **Lady Bluejay** who again helped me to sort out unintended language mistakes.


	4. Chapter 4

So here we go for some more fun at the farm! Thank you for reading, "favouriting" (Is that an English expression? ;) ) and for your nice reviews.

 **Chapter IV**

It was three griddles the farmer pulled out of the oven, and in no time she put a large wooden plate with crusty pies on the table. "Minced beef with spices and feta, that is sheep's cheese," she said, breaking one open for her guests to see.

Éowyn sniffed. "That smells gorgeous." She reached for one of the pieces and took a bite. To the farmer's great satisfaction, she exclaimed her approval. "Chillies and garlic! And allspice, isn't it?"

The farmer nodded, and Lothíriel took the other half and tasted it. "Lovely. There also is a trace of cinnamon and nutmeg. And cardamom, I suppose. Have a try, mother." The queen of the Mark held the chunk out to her mother.

Gelíris took a bite of the proffered pie, her eyebrows raising in surprised approval. "Yes, definitely cardamom. And there's also coriander, I dare say. What a cunning mixture."

The farmer couldn't help a wide, happy grin. It was a true blessing for any enthusiastic cook to have knowledgeable guests who cherished a good meal. "I normally use these spices to make Merguez, a kind of small spicy sausages, but it's nice with any kind of mincemeat dish." She urged the women to have some more. "It's a recipe from what you probably would call Near Harad."

The women complied, but then, her hand already reaching for one of the small pies, Gelíris hesitated. "I suppose this was meant to be your husband's meal. I hope we are not depriving him of his food."

The farmer shook her head. "Don't you worry, I put some aside as a safe store for him. I certainly would not let him go without food, be it the Valar themselves visiting."

Gelíris smiled. "He's a good man, though a quiet one, from what Winfrid reported."

The farmer snorted. "You don't expect me to disagree, do you? But all in all I suppose none of us can rightfully complain about the husbands they have."

"I at least won't, and I doubt you will." Grinning lopsidedly at Éowyn, the queen of the Mark tucked into her pie.

The farmer rose and cleared her throat. "Well, let's drink our husbands' health. I have a light white wine that goes perfectly with spicy food."

Soon four glasses were filled and clinked together. "To the oafs we are saddled with and who we love despite their quirks and flaws, not least for the valour with which they accept ours!"

Éowyn snorted with laughter and then reached for the left over ice cubes. "I had better water the wine, before I start going into details about saddles or no saddles as far as husbands are concerned."

"Wait!" The farmer got to her feet. "I think I have got something better." She rushed to one of her freezers and soon came back with a small plastic bag filled with reddish orbs. "Frozen strawberries," she said with a grin. "They have no special taste in this state, but leave them to thaw in wine and they taste simply divine."

There was little talk while they finished their pies, but when the farmer opened the shortbread tin again for something sweet to close the meal with, Éowyn thoughtfully turned the biscuit in her fingers. "Have you never thought about getting a new dog?"

The farmer shrugged. "I certainly have, especially as we are having problems with stray dogs in the village lately. But not just any dog would do for my purposes. It's not easy to find one that is a good guardian, strong and intelligent, friendly with the livestock and not having any hunting instinct." She grimaced. "I'm afraid I've been spoilt by the dogs I had. And then there also is the aspect of the price..."

Éowyn lowered the shortbread she had just been about to take a bite off. "There are sheepdogs in the Wold. Huge beasts, looking almost like sheep themselves. And probably they think they are sheep and the flock is their pack they ought to protect."

Eagerly, Lothíriel nodded. "There is such a breed in the Morthond valley, too. They are not afraid of wolves and even defend the flocks against bears."

"I suppose there are similar breeds wherever people keep large flocks, even though in our area it's rather stray dogs that endanger the sheep." The farmer sighed. "Keeping the few sheep I have fenced in, it should not really be necessary to have a dog. But since some rich urbanites bought one of the old farms we are having problems in the village."

"Urbanites?" Gelíris raised her elegant brows quizzically.

"City people who don't know shit about keeping animals or country life in general but think it cool to go rural. Even worse than those who only spend their summer holidays in the country but keep a house here that's standing empty for the rest of the year."

Éowyn gave her a sympathetic nod. "Tell me about the rich and noble of Minas Tirith flocking into Ithilien every summer. A pest."

Gelíris nodded. "When I was young and Ithilien was still overrun by the Enemy, those snobs tended to infest Lossarnach, especially Imloth Melui. We have relatives there, and they were fed up to their back teeth with them."

A malicious grin spread over Éowyn's face. "I'm bloody sure when Morwen still lived there, she had no qualms to tell them that they weren't welcome."

The farmer bared her teeth in responding wickedness. "She truly hadn't. But that is MedeaSmyke's story to tell. I wish she would also take care of the bloke I'd like to get rid of. The idiot is keeping huskies."

"Huskies?" The word obviously didn't ring a bell with any of her guests.

"A special breed of dogs. They cost a fortune. One of them is worth more than all my sheep together. And that's why some people keep them. That and their beauty. But they are working dogs, sledge dogs from the North actually, dogs that need a proper master, one who makes them work, not just an owner, who keeps them as mere pets." The farmer grunted. "The problem always is the owner, not the dog. But we shouldn't let those idiots spoil our day."

"We certainly shouldn't." With a rather determined gesture Gelíris put down her glass. Looking up, she gave the farmer an almost dazzling smile, causing the woman to prepare for the assault that was certainly to come.

"You see, mistress Thanwen, once we are here..." A side-glance flitted to the younger women. "Éothain mentioned something that has highly intrigued me. Some kind of magic window or rather a surface like a mirror that could show a story..."

"TV," the farmer said.

"Tea what? What a strange name." Éowyn frowned. "Anyway. Éothain said our story was shown in it and that it had been fun in the beginning, but those barmy people in the mirror didn't know a fart about horses and warfare, making an éored gallop down a steep slope to attack a host of orcs. And Éomer was highly put out because he had been made to be the leader of that éored."

The farmer shrugged. "Most film makers are not interested in realistic scenes but want them to look impressive. They have sword-fights with the opponents whacking at each other's blades and pirouetting, turning their backs to their foes during the fight, just to show off."

"Bollocks." Éowyn grimaced. "Éomer then was more than right to feel peeved."

"He certainly was. More so as his best lines were all given to somebody else. But there certainly are others who have reason to feel miffed." The farmer eyed the Shieldmaiden with badly hidden glee.

Éowyn frowned. "What do you hint at? Me?"

"Faramir." The farmer's smile could only be called wolfish.

"Oh dear." Gelíris face showed serious unease. "I had better not made that remark, I fear."

The farmer chuckled. "Never mind. They are grown up. They must be tough enough to stand the truth."

"Truth?" Her eyes glinting angrily, Lothíriel joined in the fray. "How can you name such stupidities truth."

Still grinning, the farmer shook her head. "I don't. Such scenes are stupid, no matter how impressive they look. What I meant by you accepting the truth is, that you must realise that such things, be it gossip, stories or _films_ , as we call them, do exist and you have to cope with their existence. You can't stop the creation of legends as little as you can stop the tide."

Her brows still knitted, Lothíriel nodded. "Fine. So be it. But if I cannot change those things I at least want to see them to judge for myself. Show us those _films_."

Wagging her head, the farmer eyed the clock at the kitchen wall. "Watching a single film will take hours, and there are three of them. It will take too long as it's late already and I need to feed the animals before dark. But I could show you some scenes to satisfy your curiosity."

She ushered her guests into the parlour, and soon Lothíriel and Éowyn sprawled on the tiny couch while Gelíris ensconced herself in the armchair, all of them staring expectantly at the TV screen. The farmer sized the remote control, and after some skipping through the menu, Éomer calling the Eorlingas to fulfil their oaths and ride to Gondor filled the screen, much to the excitement of her visitors.

"As a marshal he's not bad at all," Éowyn allowed, "and as a man he's nothing a woman would shove off her beside without a second look, I dare say."

"True," Lothíriel said, "But he's not Éomer."

The farmer pressed the button, and the scene froze in mid-motion. "Why not?"

Lothíriel shrugged. "The frame's not too bad, but he's too pudgy in the face."

The farmer nodded. "That's what I always thought. And not only in the face, I dare say. I saw him in "The Pathfinder" where he wore little more than a loincloth and I found he had a striking resemblance to a badger ready for hibernation."

The queen of the Mark gave her a dirty look. "You won't find a single ounce of surplus fat on Éomer King. He's quite bulky, yes, but fat... No way!"

"A good cock doesn't grow fat, as the saying goes." The farmer's remark was met with a neighing laughter from Éowyn and a gasp from Lothíriel while the Princess of Dol Amroth schooled her features into impressive blandness.

"Cock as in male chicken," The farmer explained with glee, "but you got the meaning right. But let me show you a scene you'll certainly like; the one when he takes down the mumak."

"He kills a mumak?" Éowyn leaned forward eagerly. "How does he do that? "

"You'll see. It is a bit over the top, but still plausible and quite impressive." _Better not tell them how Jackson killed every grain of logic afterwards with those Legolas stunts._ A few clicks brought on the battle on the Pelennor, featuring Éomer in berserk mode, throwing his spear at the smirking mumak driver, thus causing the animal to crash into a neighbouring one and the women in her parlour to whoop. Again the farmer stopped the scene. "Want to see it again?" Not waiting for an answer, she repeated the scene, much to their delight.

"Éomer or not Éomer, that man certainly got healthy teeth." Gelíris smug remark made the others double over with laughter.

"He truly looks as if he could bite off some foe's head without any problem." Lothíriel nudged her sister-in-law. "If it has the battle on the Pelennor, could we not also watch Éowyn killing the Witchking."

Blanching visibly, the Shielmaiden shook her head. "I'm sorry to spoil your fun, Loth, but I would rather we don't. I..." Nervously she fingered her left arm, only to be swept up in an affectionate embrace.

"I'm sorry, Wyn. That was thoughtless. But I have to admit I really would like to see how they present you in this _film_."

"Not to say anything about Faramir," Gelíris added.

"The Houses of Healing it is then." The farmer skittered through the menu, until the screen showed Miranda Otto, raising from her bed in a huge, lofty room, her arm only wrapped in what seemed to be a linen bandage, and walk towards the window.

"Béma, is that supposed to me me?" Éowyn's voice had an unexpected shrillness. The farmer stopped the scene and shrugged.

"It's supposed to be you in the Houses of Healing, the moment before you meet Faramir."

Éowyn shook her head. "How abominably stupid. That's only a few days after the battle. That arm was broken in several places. Without a proper splint and support it would simply have come apart."

Lothíriel shrugged. "At least the gown is nice."

But the Shieldmaiden was not that easy to sway. "Yeah, and it would look like that if I had slept in it. And that room! What do they think the Houses are, a festival hall?"

The farmer's eyes went from the Éowyn on her old couch to the one on screen. Truly both were beautiful, lithe, slim with even facial proportions, but were the actress was delicate, the one in her parlour had muscles and her face lacked the tender sweetness the actress radiated. It rather was the bold layout of her features, the straight nose, the proud chin, the clear grey eyes that all but contradicted the sensuous curve of her mouth which made her beautiful. _A falcon ready to swoop._ The farmer suppressed a grin, looking forward to Éowyn's reaction with malicious amusement. She pressed the button, and from between the columns David Wenham hesitantly entered the scene in a loose hanging shirt, looking puppy-eyed at the film Éowyn.

Éowyn gasped. "Who the heck is that supposed to be? Don't you tell me..."

The farmer nodded with mock seriousness. "Faramir."

"No way!" Éowyn almost shrieked, while Lothíriel snorted with laughter.

"Come on, sister. He isn't too bad. If I get a roly-poly, why shouldn't you get a sandy-haired pup. At least he has a big nose, and that is certainly promising, as our host will tell you."

Raising a hand delicately to her mouth,Gelíris sniggered. "My, that fellow has nothing of a Númenórean about him. I certainly don't want to offend him, as he seems to be a quite nice and meek specimen, but that hair! That face! And that posture! Incredible. Éowyn, they married you to a blend of sheep and setter puppy. "

Shoving off her sister-in-law, who had by now collapsed with laughter into her lap, Éowyn glared at her aunt by marriage and then turned to the farmer. "Is there any scene showing Prince Imrahil? I would like to obtain some satisfaction for my paining eyes or at least to draw level."

The farmer wagged her head. "As far as I know he's not in the films, at least not officially. But there is a bloke in one scene, a lot of people believe to be Imrahil."

"Let's see him!" Straightening, Éowyn waved at the screen imperiously.

Soon the wounded Faramir was dragged through the gates of Minas Tirith and then Ian Hughes hastened through the scene, mumbling that Denethor had been right about the threat. The farmer stopped the film, pointing at the screen with the remote control. "There he is," she said, struggling not to laugh.

"Who?" The princess of Dol Amroth stared at the actor's face. "That... That can't be."

The farmer shrugged. "It probably isn't. I told you, he was omitted from the story in the film. But as some people thought he had to be in it, someone spread the rumour it was him and launched a wild discussion if that was true or not."

While Geliris still shook her head in flabbergasted disbelief, her daughter was not impressed at all. "I can only suppose those people were drinking too many of your cocktails while watching the film. Why, that wimp doesn't even wear Dol Amroth' colours nor her arms. And that hair..."

The farmer shrugged again, her face deadpan. "Why not? It says in the books: _Imrahil the fair_."

Lothíriel snorted. "The fair, not the fair-haired. The princes of Dol Amroth are of Númenórean blood."

"That they are. But as they claim Mithrellas of Lothlorien as their ancestress and Peter Jackson pictured the elves of the Golden Wood with platinum blond hair..." The farmer couldn't help her mouth curve in a wicked grin.

Still shaking her head, Gelíris groaned. "And to imagine there are people who believe I could have fallen for _that_ man!"

"Mistress Thanwen." Éowyn's voice was remarkably sober. Pointing at the remote control, she faced the farmer. "I say you had better stop this before it gets worse. We all have probably seen enough to give us nightmares or at least to question the intelligence of some of your people."

Inclining her head, the farmer obliged, wondering what reaction moth-eaten Théoden and apeshit-crazy Denethor would have evoked. Her gaze then wandered to the fast dimming window. The sky sported a dense blanket of cloud by now, and judging from the sound of the trees that bordered her premises the wind had risen considerably. Could it be that the weather changed for the worse automatically once she had that sort of visitors? Was it a kind of magic hint to invite them to stay?Unsure, what to do, she rose with a sigh. "You'll have to excuse me for a while, girls, but with the cloudy sky it darkens earlier than usual and the critters are waiting. Shall I open another bottle of wine for you to pass the time?"

Shaking her head, Gelíris rose, too. "Thank you for your excellent hospitality, mistress Thanwen. We truly enjoyed our stay, but I think it is high time we left, lest the boy might worry or get into trouble."

"The boy?"

Éowyn rose likewise. "Winfrid of course. He took us to the site he had travelled from the last time with Éomer and Éothain and stayed behind as a guard."

Slightly worried, the farmer frowned. "To guard what?"

Pulling Lothíriel up from the sagging sofa, the Shieldmaiden laughed. "Our picnic equipment, especially the hamper. We made sure that nobody should wonder if the trip took us a bit longer. Though the length of our stay here doesn't really correspond with time in Middle-earth. He said the last time only a few hours had passed back home while they had stayed here over night due to the storm."

That did not really help to settle the farmers worries, though she felt somehow reassured that the boy at least had something to eat while waiting for the women. "Do you expect the weather might pose any risk to your journey? I mean, you are welcome to stay if you aren't sure that everything will work out all right."

Éowyn shrugged, grinning broadly. "No risk, no fun." The two young women nudged each other at Éowyn's remark, their faces in a daring grin. For a moment the farmer wondered if she should have played her heavy metal discs to them. At least those two looked as if they would have enjoyed Sabaton bellow out _Panzerkampf._

 **Annotations:**

Sabaton: a Swedish metal band

Panzerkampf: one of the songs from their CD "The Art of War"

Many thanks go to the ladies of "The Garden" and especially to **Lady Bluejay** who despite my hard-to-kill Germanisms has not given up yet to help me with the language. :)


	5. Chapter 5

So here comes the last chapter of this little story with a somewhat kitschy ending for all those of you who like a happy, cuddly ending, especially at Christmas. ;)

 **Chapter V**

"These confounded …" Hopping around on one leg in the utility room, the queen of the Mark tried to pull on her boots, while the others were waiting more or less patiently. She had already furiously declined their help and so Éowyn just watched, her arms crossed in front of her chest.

"I told you, new boots always are a real bugger. You had better wear the old ones."

Lothíriel gave her a furious glare. "Just shut it, will you? If I want to break them in I have to wear them."

The first single drops of rain could be heard, clattering on the tin roof of the drying shed and the trees swooshed in a wind that announced stronger rain. Leaving the two young women to their squabble, the farmer followed the Princess of Dol Amroth into the barn to take the saddles off the stable partition, where the women had put them, when two things occurred almost at the same time: The shrill cry of a horse sounded from the barnyard, and then Éowyn bolted past them and out of the door. Dropping the saddle she had been handling, the farmer ran after her, grabbing her big torch as she went.

There was no sight of her sheep at first, but the three horses stood in front of the fold, moving uneasily, their eyes and nostrils wide, their ears pulled back nervously, facing the two dogs that crouched before them, ready to jump any moment. And then the light beam of the torch found the sheep, huddled in the far corner of the fold, streaks of blood showing on the coats of at least two lambs.

"Wulf! Andfeng, Windfola! Forth!" Éowyn's voice sounded like a whiplash, and with another deafening cry the great grey bore down on the dogs.

It was impossible to follow the whirl of bodies, the frantic flash of fangs and hooves in the torch light, all made the more unreal and monstrous by the sounds of wind and rain, the dogs' snarls and yelps and the stallion's neighing, but it took only seconds until the body of the foremost attacker crashed into the barn wall, catapulted there by Windfola's thrashing hooves, while the second made a run for it three-legged, plunging through the ditch that bordered the meadows as fast as it could.

"Eft!" Commanding her horse to stay, Éowyn jumped forward, reaching for the dagger on her belt .

"Don't!" Much faster than age and plumpness suggested, the farmer was at Éowyn's side.

Her dagger halfway drawn, Éowyn raised her head. "I just want to make sure the beast is dead."

The farmer nodded. "I know. But I would rather not have anybody find that the dog was stabbed." She prodded the body with her foot. "It won't be necessary anyway. This cur is as dead as a doornail." She squinted into the dusk, the gloom of which was amplified by the rain. "I doubt anybody has seen or heard anything, what with the rain and the next house being quite some distance away. Perhaps I had better make use of the rain and get rid of the carcass before anybody develops funny ideas."

"I don't understand..."

The farmer sighed. "Look, Éowyn, these dogs are pure-bred huskies, the very same beasts I told you about. So a killed dog will mean a heavy loss for the owner."

Éowyn snorted. "No matter how much it is worth, it attacked your sheep in a fenced off meadow on your premises. If the owner values his precious hounds that much, he should keep them kennelled."

The farmer gave a bitter laugh. "No doubt, but I know whose dog it is and I prefer not to be involved. It is not the first time the beast was after my sheep. I complained about it at the council, only to be told to put up better fencing." She wouldn't even try to explain anything like an electric fence to Éowyn. It probably would be as successful as trying to get her fowl used to it. Some things simply didn't work. With a grimace, she shrugged. "Rich people always know how to buy law. And anyway, I had better check my sheep now."

With a grunt, Éowyn spit on the bloodied mud of the yard, but before she could make any remark, Lothíriel and her mother appeared in the open door. The farmer left it to Éowyn to inform them on the incident and went into the fold, closing the gate behind her. A swift check revealed that the two lambs sported only shallow bites and scratches on head and necks, but one of the ewes had lost half an ear to the fangs of the dogs and was bleeding profusely. That certainly needed binding. With a grunt, she turned to the women, waiting for her in the open door of the barn. The rain was falling now in fat, steady drops.

"It's nothing that will not mend." She eyed her visitors with an awkward expression. "They must have sought shelter in the fold because of the upcoming rain and that was where those dogs had them like on a dinner tray. There cannot be any doubt that your horses forestalled anything worse, and also made sure that at least one dog won't come again, and I am grateful for that, but I would not like anybody to come and ask questions about who or what killed it."

Gelíris nodded. "I suppose we had better leave to spare you further discomfort." Without any other comment, the women went to get the saddles, while the farmer fetched some dressing material and soon was back in the fold, tending the ewe and disinfecting the lambs' scratches.

Having hefted her saddle, the saddle blanket slung loosely over her shoulder, Éowyn hesitated at the gate. "Are you sure you don't need any help?"

The farmer nodded. "As I said: It will mend."

"And what will you do about that piece of carrion?" The Shieldmaiden jerked her head towards the dead dog.

The farmer smiled lopsidedly. "I'll drag it along the hedge to where the track hits the road and place it on the bank of the ditch there. No doubt the other dog will head for home, and if anybody comes looking for the second one, they'll find it on the roadside and think it was run over by a car, fitting in with the injuries of the first."

"A cart?" Gelíris' face expressed her doubt and the farmer could not help her grin deepen.

"Something like that, but much faster and therefore much more deadly when it hits you. Don't you worry, it will work like a charm. But I had better do it as soon as possible, before anybody gets wind of it."

The Princess of Dol Amroth lowered her head in agreement, but a remaining unease showed clearly in her face."If you say so." She sighed. "We had better go now."

This time the farmer did not ignore the proffered hand, and Gelíris squeezed it heartily. "Take care of yourself, mistress Thanwen, and don't let any rich and inconsiderate newcomers daunt you."

The farmer shook her head. "I will and I won't. But I am sure with one of his dogs killed and the other one injured that idiot will think twice before he lets any dog stray again and risk it being run over." The malicious grin was back on her face. "You see, my sheep are not worth much, but if a stray dog causes an accident with a car things might get expensive even for a wealthy person."

In no time the horses were saddled, and having said good bye, the visitors plodded up the terp, while the farmer grabbed the hind legs of the dead dog and made to haul it to the roadside. There was no traffic on the road and no sound from the neighbouring houses the lamp-lit windows of which could be hardly perceived in the murk and when she was on her way back, the rain set in for good, pouring down as if someone had upturned a bath tub.

The terp was almost invisible, hidden behind wind-beaten curtains of rain, and for a moment she wondered at the strange pang she felt, realising that it would be empty. A look into the fold assured her that everything was as well as it could be, and hefting the hay fork, she started to feed the sheep. With the bucketing rain there would be no traces left by the next morning, and the only proof of her visitors would be a battery of empty glasses on her kitchen table

 **ooo**

Feeling an odd mixture of satisfaction and melancholy, the farmer let her gaze wander over the harvested patch before her. The spring had been quite cool and a little too dry, but her spinach had thrived and what was more, she had been able to harvest all of it before a single plant had run to seed. Close by a blackbird started to warble in the hedges, causing a silent smile to flit over the woman's features. How could people not love these early mornings! Was there anything like the world just after dawn? She breathed deep, relishing the fresh air, still cool from the night. There was a promise of rain in the air, reminding her of that strange afternoon two months ago.

Not that it had actually changed anything in her life: She had continued to work her garden, which had kept her busy enough, some late-coming lambs had been born, raising the headcount of her little flock to twenty-one, and then there had been the story or rather the stories. First of all Gelíris was in for a surprise. She chuckled softly, imagining the princess' immaculate eyebrows disappearing into her hairline. Second to come was Lothíriel's story. She straightened her back. Seven chapters it had taken her to sort out what the queen of the Mark had called the Airik-affair and she was more than relived to have been able to finish the first draft before sheep shearing was due. All that was left now was polishing and typing. She would not start on the Erchirion story before she was through with that, though her notebook already held a number of scribbled down scenes and ideas, some just mere lists of keywords while others were almost ready to be typed. She certainly would keep her promise, but as certainly she would not let Gelíris' demand meddle with her other duties.

She could not help a wistful grin, thinking of her unexpected visitors. No doubt they had spent a really nice afternoon, but she was rather relieved that the three women had not chosen to visit again, especially as the gossip about the mysterious car that had run over the new neighbour's stray dogs had not died down for almost a month. Only when another neighbour had been able to sell one of his yearlings for a tremendous price at the annual foal auction everybody had switched to the new topic.

Lifting the bulky basket with the yield of the last furrow, she made for the kitchen terrace to sort and clean the plants before further processing, only to find that the big bucket was still full with last evening's sorted out plants that would normally go to the rabbits and the sheep. She frowned, thinking for a moment about just throwing it over the fence to be able to continue her work. But it was still too early for the usual morning feeding and her husband would be grumpy if she changed his morning routines, feeding the animals out of the regular feeding times as it taught them to bleat any time they heard or saw someone, in the hope for an extra treat, which could become rather nerve-racking.

Grumbling under her breath, she went in search for another bucket, but the simple opening of the shed door was enough to alert the old leading ewe, who immediately started to clamour, rousing the others of her flock. With a sigh, the farmer reached for the full bucket. Now it was all the same anyway, so she had better shut those dratted sheep up.

Seeing her approach, ewes and lambs jostled in front of the gate. With a snort, she pushed the gate open. Those stupid animals! They had a more than lush meadow all to themselves, but no, always the plants that were out of their reach were the ones they coveted! She squeezed in between the sheep, spreading out the spinach chaff in little heaps distanced from each other to also give the lambs a chance for a mouthful before their greedy dams could gobble down the whole ration.

Soon the bleating died down, and she was surrounded by white, grey and brown backs, heads bent as eager mouths made short work of the treat. As a matter of routine, she counted them, lest one was missing. The two wethers, greedy as always, the barren ewe, easily noticeable as she had run to fat, the small grey, wiry leading ewe, five other ewes, three white, two brown... That was all right. And then there should be twelve lambs, five dark ones and seven... She stopped short, blinked and counted again. No mistake: there was a surplus lamb.

Having finished the spinach, the ewes started to move away, calling their lambs to them with that typical low bleat, and then she spotted it: white, matching her lambs in size and fur, but sporting a broader back and a much longer tail. A pup! Slowly she knelt down, reaching out her hand and called the small animal with cooing sounds.

A broad, almost triangular head was tilted, small ears tipped, as dark, almond shaped eyes took her in reluctantly. The unexpected nudge of the leading ewe's head almost made her fall over and with a laugh she scratched the animal's neck while the ewe started to search her apron for another treat. As if it had needed an encouraging example, the little dog gave a short yelping sound and bounced up to her, almost climbing on top the ewe's lowered head in its attempt to lick the farmer's face. For a moment she held her breath. The ewe stayed totally unfazed. How could that be? A strange dog, no matter how small, would alert any sheep, let alone her old feisty Elli. But then the dog had been amongst the sheep without them taking any notice... Slowly she grabbed it and turned it on its back. A male pup, no doubt. Her fingers gently felt for the teeth. Tiny, needle-sharp milk teeth. The animal was probably not older than three months. Thoughtful she let her fingers slide over the pup's paws. They were simply huge. That dog would become at least as big as her old Newfoundlander. But when she had introduced the nine-weeks-old Ebba to the sheep they had reacted very differently, showing nervousness and even fear, despite the dog being little more than a four-legged ball of black fur. Slowly she raised the pup to her nose and found her suspicion confirmed: the dog smelled like a sheep.

Putting it down again, she swallowed. A livestock guardian dog! By the look of it some kind of Pyrenean mountain dog, born in a sheep pen, bred to live amongst the flock and protect it. Just what she had always wanted. Doubtfully her gaze wandered over to the top of the terp. Could it be? The demanding whine of the pup brought her out of her musings. With a smile she rose. "Well, Lütting, once you are here I had better feed you and make you welcome, hadn't I?"

She almost collided with her husband when she rounded the corner of the barn, the little dog in tow.

"What...?" He started at the animal, speechless with amazement. Grinning, she picked up the pup. "I found him amongst the sheep. Must be guardian stock. At least he smells like a sheep."

Wriggling in her arms, the pup started to lick her chin. Her husband laughed. "I dare say he already seems to feel at home. So watch it, he might take you for the leading ewe."

She stuck out her tongue at him, before her face turned serious again. "I don't know how he got into the meadow. I doubt that he could have got in there on his own. Someone must have put him there." With a sigh, she stroke the slightly curly fur. "I so wish I could keep him."

"Never you worry about that. I am sure he was put there for you to keep."

Her husband's expression was just a tad too confident, and she eyed him with a frown. "Did you ...?"

He shook his head. "No, I would not have known where to get one. But I think I know who put it there." Fishing in the fathomless pocket of his overalls, he held out something to her. "I found this on the gate of the fold."

Handing him the pup, she took the item. It was a huge dog collar, made of strong, reddish leather, studded with small bronze suns in regular distances. Slowly she turned it in her hands. There were two buckles to fix it and then she noticed the embossed signs between the single suns. Runes! And it was not Futhark. Her heart pounding like mad, she tried to work out the meaning: H... O... L... D... W... "Holdweard."

Her husband looked at her, uncomprehending.

"The dog's name is Holdweard. _Loyal Guardian_ in Old English."

Her husband laughed, tickling the pup's belly. "I don't doubt the "loyal", but this half-pint will have to grow quite a lot to fit into his collar and his name."

She could have sworn the pup grinned as he playfully dug his needle-like teeth into her husband's thumb.

 **Annotations:**

wulf: (Old English/Rohirric) wolf

andfang: (Old English/Rohirric) attack

eft: (Old English/Rohirric) back

Lütting: (Plattdeutsch/Low German) little one

Many thanks go to the ladies of "The Garden" for their helpful comments and especially to my most faithful beta-reader **Lady Bluejay** for her patient help.


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